Studmuffin or bust

So it’s two weeks since round two of the cryo and the pain kicked in after about day six. Thankfully gabapentin came to my aid, riding in on its 300mg yellow casing. It might be a while before I can, but I can’t wait to slip on these babies.

From the shoe stable of Mr Mr Kurt Geiger these are comedically called ‘Studmuffin’. Yep, seriously that’s the name on the box of these shoes. I bought these when I refused to be torn away from heels but knew that I had to make a change from the pointy-toed monsters that had led me down the painful garden path in my pre-neuroma days. Like an addict I told myself I could just have a heel without the pointy toe and get by, I could just get a small fix and that I would be ok, I could manage it, I could control my urges and desires, I would be ok having a small heel and a roomy toe. And pretty much, I was right.

These were the shoes I wanted, nay needed for a friend’s wedding in 2010. I wasn’t sure if I could make it through the day and night in the Studmuffins so I bought a relatively flat wedge back up pair of shoes from Dune that accompanied me to Stoke on Trent for the wedding and reception. The wedges gave me height without pain and also, two pairs of shoes for the same event with an excuse of wanting to ensure a pain free day, sneaky huh?

I ended up wearing the wedges in the day-time, they had the incredibly unimaginative name of “Madrid”, but then I slipped on the Muffins in the evening when we got back to the hotel. It was a good day and a good night and my foot didn’t hurt very much at all but to be honest that might have been the alcohol. Just saying….

Subsequently I have found that these shoes have become my greatest ally in the need for height coupled with the need for a pain free life. Whenever I have slipped on a dress over the summer they have been my gently caressing non-threatening friends whilst in the office, at a funeral, at a birthday party and at numerous other non-events where a dress called for heels to avoid the appearance of being the small, tubby lass with fat calves and ankles (cankles). I’m hoping that I’ll be able to get reacquainted with the muffins by the end of September when I’m off to a wedding. Quite frankly, if I have to wear casual slip-ons I might as well just tip up in a pink shell suit, yeah but, no but...

It’s the Muffins or bust.

Ding-Ding, Round two

Enforced rest has many benefits; being waited upon hand and foot, all food has no guilt strings attached and you can’t feel bad about watching tv or reading books. Since Friday I have spent more time attached to my sofa than I probably have for the rest of the year combined, and today is only Sunday. By Tuesday I will need to be surgically removed from the black leathery temptress and I will probably need to get my eyes tested again due to the amount of degeneration from reading e-books on my laptop.

It’s actually been bliss, marred only by the subtle throbbing emanating from my left foot, a gentle reminder of the second bout of cryo-injection therapy I undertook on Friday afternoon. I’m certain this will do the trick, nine minutes of freezing rather than the usual six in total to create an ice ball one centimetre in length with temperatures as low as -67˚ inside my foot. Basically, I had the planet Hoth in my foot. By the end of the procedure I could feel that my teeth wanted to start chattering. I’m sure it was purely psychological and the weather was pants on Friday but it took me most of the day to get warm again.

The procedure doesn’t hurt but the initial anaesthetic and steroid injections are not for the faint hearted, I was pleased that Robin http://bit.ly/om0uVa suggested we ‘pop the AC on’ prior to beginning. Once the injections had been done I was ok for him to turn it off, the AC on my clamminess only heightened the innate desire to give in to the tunnel vision and hurl chunks. My loving husband texted me afterwards to see if I’d ‘spewed’ during the procedure, knowing me as long as he has I’m surprised he doesn’t know, I part with nothing unless silver crosses my palm.

Following this enforced rest I have one confession to make and an apology; I’ve read all the Twilight books and watched all the available films, and although the shining like diamonds thing as opposed to burning up in the sun is still not sitting right with the folklore to which I have become accustomed, I admit it, the Twilight books are as entertaining as all the other vamp stories I’ve devoured in my time. So I’m sorry for my previous aspersions upon the stories. Don’t get me wrong it ain’t no True Blood and I have no loin-stirrage for Pattinson (trust me, I’d feel way too much like a cougar if I did) but it’s been a decent way to spend a weekend. A weekend when the closest I’ve been to shoes is a luxurious pair of velour grey slippers, which would suit everyone yet no one from the age of 13 to 93.

So here I am sat on my sofa after round two on my journey to be rid of a Morton’s Neuroma, it’s over a year since I did any running and it’s thanks only to Prime Mover http://bit.ly/qAS0zN that I’m not the size of the leathery temptress. Imagine me as a sofa with eyes, and a gammy foot. The next two months of low impact gentle exercise will mean a careful eye on the diet and the turning back on of the will power gene. But come the end of October I will be starting my 25-week build up to the London Marathon 2012, I’ll know in October if I’m successful in the ballot or if I have to raise £2,000 to buy my way in. Either way I’m doing it, the hotel in Greenwich is booked, although I’m still deciding on the charity to run for. Perhaps the shoe sale could go some way to covering that potential cost.

I’m sure you think I’m mad, recovering from a procedure that I’ve undergone which was probably caused by the repetition of road running and talking about running again, but we all need challenges, without them we just exist rather than live. Besides after Friday’s session the chances of the inter-digital nerve making it through to next April is slim. The hope is that the nerve will wither and die and stop bugging me once and for all; the extra cycle of freezing should completely inhibit the ability for the nerve to regenerate, my body will break it down and it won’t come back. A bit like using Weedol on that annoying blighter in the middle of the drive. Chances are there won’t be any pain in the future because there won’t be a nerve to give me pain.

It’s been an expensive and painful journey to get back to running fitness and the journey isn’t finished yet but I’ve learned a lot of things along the way.
1. Always insist upon laying down if someone is going to inject steroids into me
2. Never give up, never give in always move forwards
3. Pointy toes aren’t the answer to every wardrobe issue.

Samuel L. Jackson's shoe manifesto

Today was a day when I wasn’t going to check in to the t’interweb. I thought you could live ok without me and my shoe ramblings, and to be frank I’m sure you could. But here’s the thing, I wanted to share.

One of my neighbours passed away earlier this week and I thought I was ok with the news, until at the funeral I discovered she was eight years older than me and her 16 and 18 year old kids weren’t doing so well with the news that mom had given up her fight with the big C. It was on the whole a really special funeral, very moving, photos of the deceased and her kids and a shirt of her favourite football team across the coffin. Perhaps you’d think, ‘what the hell I can deal with this’, till her daughter stands up and starts telling the congregation how her mom was a role model and she looked up to her and wanted to make her proud, (note to self; do not ever attend another funeral wearing black without tissues; snail trails look fanciful on garden walls but not on dresses)

It was distressing, I hadn’t realised how much Kathryn Carpenter had made such an impression upon our neighbourhood until today; she was a feisty, passionate character and she will be missed by everyone who knew her. She cared about everyone and everything and that’s what made this social worker from the North special; her absolute passion about everything that mattered to her. Kath was a caring person, she was passionate and she loved what she loved – equality, diversity, people, friends, family, anything worth fighting for oh yeah and Sheffield Wednesday. We have already made a pact to take her 16 year old son to as many games as possible.

Here’s the thing, they weren’t the perfect neighbours, they fought, they shouted, they had a dog that ran around on our garden, but they were good people and their world is currently upside down. I love them for trying to pull it together. I love them for burying their differences today and most of all I love how feisty and passionate they all are, just like Kath. She would have adored today. The moving ceremony and the boozy get together afterwards, within spitting distance of the house.

I went to the ceremony in a different pair of shoes, which we will discuss later, but today, I walked to the pub in these flat babies, courtesy of the Shearers. They were a birthday present to celebrate a ‘0’ birthday last year. They’re flat and they were going to be worn for the entire 30-minute walk up the hill to the pub before another neighbour pulled up alongside us and said ‘do you want a lift?’

See that’s the thing, we have a Cameron neightbourhood without the Cameron Government; Big Society pah……We help each other, we look out for one another, we offer to help and if it’s requested, we deliver; like a Sam L. Jackson Government we give a fuck, mutherfucka.

Life round here is a bit like these shoe, comfy, easy, but covered in prickly studs. We’ll throw you a curve because we’re a bit different, but deep down we’re lovely and we will go the extra mile to help someone who needs support, but always be appreciative of that love because it’s never one way. Perhaps if we all were like that life would be so such easier, and so much nicer to share with strangers - we give if you accept and give a bit in return.

Thanks Kath, I’ve learned so much today about my neighbours and I thank you for that. You will be missed but your strength through the last few months will be remembered for ever. We’ll keep an eye on the kids and Wednesday for you.
Sniff.

Shoeless in Stockholm

These shoes hold memories of a sad time. I bought them to wear to a friend’s wedding but the night before we were supposed to go, we got home from the office to find our home had been burgled. They had just about cleared us out; all the small electricals that weren’t bolted down had gone; DVDs, CD’s, my jewellery including a wedding band that had belonged to my grandma (Dorothy not Lilian), my engagement ring that had been too big after I lost weight, they’d even stolen the gift for the bride and groom.

That was an awful feeling to come home and see spaces where things had been just a few hours earlier and the dawning realisation that things with no worth to anyone else, yet priceless to us, were gone forever. The police were patronisingly useless at the time; I don’t really think advising someone who is grieving for a dead relative’s £10 wedding band should be told that banks offer safety deposit boxes for valuable items. Yeah thanks Sherlock, I wasn’t seeking your counsel, just your ability to track down criminals with your rapier sharp intellect and that dusty powder to show up finger-prints. (which you left all over my bloody house afterwards)

To give them their dues though, some four months later whilst raiding a drug dealer’s house about 1.5 miles away the police stumbled upon a gym bag with a gym pass card in which they managed to trace back to me. It having my photo and name on made it surprisingly easy and also ensured that suddenly they actually believed that someone had broken in to our house and made off with half of our lives; there was a moment when they insinuated it was an inside job.

I honestly couldn’t believe my luck when I got my gym card and gym bag back. It’s really difficult to convey sarcasm and indifference through the written word so let me just say, the bag and card were like a grain of sand compared to the ocean of sadness I felt in losing jewellery which I had amassed from friends and family over the years. They were worthless on the open market, but priceless to me.

Amongst the nightmare, it also transpired that my passport had been lifted. The very same passport I would need to travel to Stockholm ten days later for a work related visit. Have you ever tried to get a replacement passport because yours is stolen? Don’t expect it to be a quick turnaround, not within ten days anyway. I had to rustle up letters from the management company that was paying for me to travel to Stockholm and the guarantee of how much income would be lost if I didn’t travel. Plus I had to spend an entire day in Liverpool waiting for the passport to be fast tracked. Liverpool……sigh.

These shoes remind me of that time and also hobble me worse than a fanatical Annie Wilkes with a much-loved lump hammer. Even though they have to go, they are really nice shoes, brown leather Jasper Conran’s with a small square heel and a summery sling back. But those pointy toes, they’re just too, well, pointy for me now. Regardless of how many pain killers I wolf down these shoes just aint’ gonna make it back on to my feet. And for that reason, they’re fired.

Sadly we didn't make it to the wedding, I was too sad and fearful to leave my house when it wasn't secured, but Stockholm ten days later? Well if you’re wondering what’s with the photo with the flashy lights, look carefully and the middle one on stage, that's me.

Destroyed, Wicked and Bad

OK I admit it, I wore heels on Monday and took 900mg of gabapentin and now have really bad rebound pain. Was it worth it? You bet your L’Oreal life on it. Summer dress, open toed heels, not big heels but heels nevertheless. For once, just once, I didn’t feel dumpy in flats. I quite like flats but if I wear them with a dress, I look about 3’6” and 250lbs. See how I side swerved the metric system for my American readers?

Actually, I never really got to grips with the metric system, it was just being introduced in the UK when I was at school and to be fair the teachers didn’t have a Scooby, so we ended up not knowing what an inch or a centimetre was. Anyway, thankfully I know how much a pint is and what a four-inch heel looks like, what more do you need?

I could make some smutty gag about four inches and needing more than that but moving on…..

Remember me mentioning the Destroy wedges that were ‘well fierce’? Well check them out and behold the fierceness. Or is that ferocity? I bought these in 1996 at the start of my musical career and they accompanied me on my first trip to Ibiza in 97, the year I handed out a whole bunch of 12” vinyls and a record label was born. Aaaaaah, good times.

Being what can only be described as a ‘short arse’ the height that these shoes gave me was ‘visa card’ priceless. I had these slinky dark blue trousers, not quite jeans but with a substantial flare that I wore with these shoes. As I remember I wore them to death; you know how sometimes material gets a sheen to it after it’s been worn and washed too many times? Yeah well these got to that stage. I was a UK size ‘8’ back in those days, when 8 really meant something and wasn’t just a number plucked out of thin air by Gap which bears no resemblance to a size 8 in Topshop or Wallis, they’re all completely different arbitrary sizes. Or is it just me that thinks that? Answers on a postcard please.

You probably wouldn’t think so to look at these shoes but I could fair bust out a few moves on the dance floor wearing them and I never once twisted my ankle. To be brutally honest though they were so huge and cumbersome that gravity had planted them firmly on the floor before I’d even had the intention to do so. I felt like I was on the cutting edge of fashion in these shoes, they were bad, funky and wicked and lots of other words we used in the late 90s to elaborate upon something's brilliance. I’m not sure if they’ve reached vintage status yet. I read somewhere that an item has to be at least 20 years old to reach vintage status but I’ve also seen ebayers advertising something from three years ago as vintage. Divvies.

The shoes I've loved and lost (Part 1)

Writing this blog has made me ask questions of myself on a number of occasions. Why am I so addicted to shoes?
I’ve taken myself back to those moments when my feet and their coverings were important to me and I’ve pinpointed three things in my life that have made me the way I am. Or if I wuz a rapper, the way I is. Like. Innit.

I’ve taken myself back to a pair of shoes that fall in to the category of ‘the shoes I’ve loved and lost’; there will be many of these on this literary journey but these particular shoes stand out in my memory as one of the first pairs I remember in my life.

Funnily enough, they didn’t belong to me, they were Lilian’s; she was a lady I spent many hours with as a child, she was my grandmother and even now almost twenty years after her death I sometimes catch a smell of something that evokes memories of her, of her house and the times we shared. I spent a lot of time with all of my grandparents but I spent most weekends with Lil, sometimes I resented spending time with her rather than my parents and wondered why they didn’t want me at the weekend, but now as an adult I really value the close relationship I had with her. She taught me to bake cakes, tend to the garden and the value of loyalty and love having spent thirty or so years alone after the death of her beloved George, the grandfather I never had a chance to meet. To see her break down in the last few years of her life to become a shadow of her former self also taught me about the fragility of life and her passing on my then fiancé, now husband’s 21st birthday gave us sadness and an opportunity to joke that she would never be upstaged. Birthday or no birthday she was going to make sure we’d always remember her. She was a complex woman, with many foibles who sometimes wrapped herself in a mantle of jealousy but I can forgive her that, after all she’d seen a lot in her time, born the same year that the Titanic slipped beneath the waves, and living to a good age of 90.

So let me tell you about the shoes. They were deepest navy suede with a leather trim on the cross over toe, they had a kitten heel but felt incredibly high and somewhat roomy at the time to a small child like myself. Nothing has changed, I’m still small. In fact if I still had these shoes today they wouldn’t fit me. They were a size 5.5 and no matter how carefully I could have looked after them I would never have grown into them being a paltry size 3. They were definitely from the 1950s and I never saw Lil wear them, they were just my ‘dressing up’ shoes along with a lot of her wardrobe that she no longer felt the need or the love of life to wear. I remember they were a French made shoe, my heart wants to believe they were a pair of Charles Jourdan shoes but my head tells me that I should think something completely different, especially as there are vintage pairs going on ebay for between $80 and $150 right now.

When Lil died, we had about a week to clear her entire house and people who could recycle anything of any worth and landfill those items no one except her would have wanted, took her clothes, furniture, shoes and memories away. We could only keep so much, and as at her passing, my feet had reached the adult size they are today, the shoes slipped from my clutches and became one of the pairs of shoes I’ve loved and lost.

I still wear her gloves in the winter, black outer and tan wool lined from St Michaels, better known now as M&S and I sometimes wear a navy chiffon scarf, which was one of the last Christmas gifts I ever bought her. Those shoes tell part of my story and allow me to commit to the Internet, the lasting memory of a woman who died before she ever knew of its existence.

My nannan, she's the one in the middle. Another one I've loved and lost.

Gatecrasher and a Winter Wonderland

Ladies and Gentlemen may I present to you another pair of white shoes. These were bought online from Schuh (http://www.schuh.co.uk/) for a specific purpose, Gatecrasher’s White Party at Magna, Rotherham (http://www.visitmagna.co.uk/) in 2007, which was held on Boxing Day. It was a friend’s birthday and he wanted to go, so we duly obliged. To be fair this was a period in my life when just like The Vengaboys, I liked to party, so the idea of Gatecrasher over the Christmas period wasn’t so abhorrent to me; for my husband however….now that was a whole different kettle of pesce.

I don’t mind getting dressed up for special occasions but it galls me when I have to buy something that I probably won’t ever wear again, so it should come as no surprise that I recycled the top half of my wedding dress for the party. White shoes, black trousers, white top, sorted. Oh and the Mickey Mouse glo-sticks headband that someone gave to me during the evening; beautiful, in fact a sight to behold.

I danced for hours, mainly because it was freezing in Magna. Of all the places to have a party let’s just say a converted steelworks is not the best when it comes to wearing dinky little outfits in the middle of winter; smelting happened in those places for a reason. When the KLF/ JAMMs said it was ‘grim up north’ (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HwtSdJaPCSI) what they meant from that lyric was not a political statement, merely a factual ‘Eh up ar kid, it’s a bit parky oooop north’*.

I thought I’d like the music that night at Magna, that I’d be able to take it for an evening but I have to admit it, after the first trance tune with a big breakdown and yearning female vocal has washed over you, you’ve heard pretty much what’s going to happen for the rest of the evening. It’s just going to get faster and bigger until eventually there’s no place left to go. Turn left at hardcore and drop off at gabba. As I remember we all made a move somewhere around 4am, though my memory left the building around 2.30am so I could be talking utter bollihocks. What I do remember is that I didn’t really feel well again from the 27th of December until New Years Eve in 2007. Apparently you live and learn; I must have learned something as I’ve never felt that bad again since.

I’ve also learned something else from these shoes; four years after purchasing them I have learned that it’s not about the heel, it’s the toe. Remember the painful Pradas? A wee heel with a pointy toe inflicting ‘11’ on the scale of pain. Well these schuhs have a much higher heel but are roomy enough around the toe for the storage of your lunchtime sandwich or as we in the grim north would say ‘packing up’. Because of this the anaconda grip isn’t in full effect and the neuroma is held at bay. I’m not sure I’d want to make like Eliza Doolittle and dance all night in them but we may be on to something. Perhaps I should try a pair of these for my next night out http://bit.ly/n33eUe

*hello friend / brother / younger person it’s a little bit chilly when you get past Watford Gap.